The Problem with Helmut Newton

Right at Berlin’s Zoologischer Garten train station, you can find the Helmut Newton Foundation. If memory serves me right, its exhibition spaces occupy two floors of a rather grandiose building. The third floor houses the (separate) Museum of Photography. A visitor who wants to see an exhibition at the latter will have to walk past some of Helmut Newton’s most well known photographs, in particular very large prints of a number of nude women.

I have always been bothered by the fact that this particular photographer has been given such a prominent spot in Berlin, given that I think that his work is hugely problematic. I have always found Newton’s photographs to be extremely sexist and misogynistic. But it has taken me some time to figure out what exactly it is that makes them that. Given that large parts of Newton’s work arose from a fashion context (which frankly I have no interest at all in), you might be able to apply aspects of the following there as well.

So what’s going on in Newton’s photographs? I’m not going to show any of them here simply because I find them repulsive. If you want, you can look up examples; they’re not very hard to find. But you probably know what a Helmut Newton photograph looks like anyway.

Newton’s photographs usually feature men and women, and these men and women are depicted in very specific ways. This description is very broad, and it applies to almost all photographers. Insight will be gained from looking at the very specific ways in detail.

As is typically the case in the world of fashion, none of the men are particularly remarkable. Their identities and to some extent even their physical shapes matter a lot less than how they behave and what they represent. They’re always in charge. They’re powerful men that have a sense of success associated with them. That success might be tied to their physique or to something else (money — Newton’s world is one-dimensionally crass). It doesn’t really matter where that success is coming from or, for that matter, whether it’s earned or not. It only matters that it’s present. Newton’s men are successful, they exude power, and they’re dominant.

Discussions around Newton’s photographs inevitably centre on his portrayal of women. While there is a lot to be talked about (I will get to that), I need to point out first that omitting the men is a crucial mistake. It is the men that provide the setting for the world the women are depicted in. This is also the case for the photographs in which men are absent.

In a most obvious fashion, Newton’s world is entirely heterosexual. Anyone who is not heterosexual is excluded from it. That’s clearly a huge problem for many reasons that I probably don’t have to get into. Newton’s world is also filled with people who conform to very a very specific body type. Anyone not ticking that box is also excluded. If your body has a different shape or form or colour, there is no place for you in Newton’s world.

You could argue that what I described in the preceding paragraph is bad enough for it to disqualify the man’s photography. I would certainly agree. But Newton’s photography actually is a lot worse for additional reasons that I’m hoping to make clear in the following.

If you read articles about Helmut Newton, almost inevitably you will find the women in his photographs described in a very specific fashion. A recent article in Berlin’s Tagesspiegel newspaper described them as “completely naked, unashamedly confident and yet objects of desire” (my translation). We might start by noting that obviously, women are not objects. They’re human beings. To me, it feels completely wrong to describe women as objects in 2023.

But the word choice is telling, in particular the contrast between the objectification of women in the photographs and the women being “unashamedly confident”. It is the latter that provides the get-out-of-jail card for those defending Newton’s work. How can his photographs be sexist and misogynistic if the women are “unashamedly confident”? There are obvious answers to that question. First of all, it’s the women who are reduced to their basic physical characteristics: their usually naked bodies. I could think of Boomer arguments why that fact is not sexist and misogynistic. But those arguments themselves are, well, sexist and misogynistic. So they needn’t concern us here.

Furthermore, the sexism and misogyny on display is also exemplified by the fact that only physically fit and conventionally attractive women are subjected to Newton’s photographic treatment. Anyone else, it is implied, need not bother offering their body to be ogled at.

But it doesn’t end there. To find another aspect you need to pull back, and you have to consider the men. The women who are described as “unashamedly confident” in Newton’s photographs behave like the men. They’re engaged in displays of power. You might imagine that that’s the strength of Newton’s work, but it actually isn’t. Besides the fact that anyone who is not conforming to its particular sexuality or body type is already automatically excluded, the interaction between the heterosexual men and women in Newton’s photographs plays out on a territory that’s demarcated by a narrow definition of what masculinity means. It’s the territory of power and domination. Therein, you have two options available to you: you can surrender, or you can fight. Any other choices would, I suppose, make you something like a loser in the eyes of those who are or want to be part of that world.

The interaction between the heterosexual men and women in Newton’s photographs plays out on a territory that’s demarcated by a narrow definition of what masculinity means. It’s the territory of power and domination. Therein, you have two options available to you: you can surrender, or you can fight.

Seen that way, Newton’s world is even more exclusionary than I mentioned earlier. It excludes anyone who is not heterosexual. It excludes anyone whose body type does not conform to something very specific (with some minor leeway for men). And it excludes all those hetereosexual men and women who conceivably would get accepted in Newton’s world but who would rather opt out.

After all, the depiction of heterosexuality in Helmut Newton’s work is very reductive. Newton’s photographs only deal with a form of sexuality that understands a sexual being as one involved in acts of domination, acts of exercising power. That’s all there is. If there are equals, they’re not equal because they’re accepting of each other as they are. They are only equal because they’re frozen in an equilibrium of exercised power. While this does represent a part of human sexuality, it is extremely limiting because it excludes many other possibly mentally more healthy ways of expressing one’s sexuality.

Furthermore, we might also note that Newton’s photographs are only in service of the dominant mode of straight Western sexuality where men dominate women and where men must not display any even minute form of affection — physical or otherwise — towards other men. In its most extreme incarnation, for this form of sexuality rape culture is not something that is separate, it’s something that’s directly connected. You can see aspects of it in Newton’s photographs.

It’s extremely important to realise that if you are heterosexual person, you do not have to make the parameters of that world your own. Someone who is driven by loving kindness, say, might simply reject operating in a world. For what it’s worth, none of the people in Newton’s photographs strikes me as kind and, to be honest, neither does the photographer.

The unashamed confidence the writer of the Tagesspiegel writer spoke of can manifest itself in any number of ways. If your body type does not conform to the standards used by professional models or if you’re not wealthy, you can still be extremely confident in who you are as a person. That confidence can then manifest itself in any number of ways. In fact, if you are aware of this, domination as a form of expression for your confidence might strike you as ludicrous or not as acceptable at all.

In Newton’s pictures, all of these different ways of thinking, feeling, and acting as a heterosexual person are entirely absent. In the photographs, strength and power are the only aspects that matter. In other words, the women who are widely described as “unashamedly confident” are confident in a very narrowly defined fashion, a fashion that is entirely based on how traditional heterosexual masculinity sees itself. We might note that this very type of masculinity now sees itself under threat, which in part is responsible for the rise of neofascism.

Helmut Newton did not live to see the days when neoliberal policies turned formerly social-democratic nations into dog-eat-dog settings where ever more money is being funnelled towards those at the top (usually in the name of “austerity”). If you wanted to, you could view his photographs as neoliberal realism even though most of them were made before the excesses we’re now made to witness.

You could summarize all of this as follows. Helmut Newton’s photography is not sexist and misogynistic if you use criteria for its evaluation that themselves are sexist and misogynistic: your inability to see what’s on full display betrays your inability to recognize the sexist and misogynistic societal structure you’re embedded in. Newton’s photographs are not problematic if you have internalized the mechanisms of the male gaze, according to which the world is to be seen through the eyes of heterosexual men in power.

Helmut Newton’s photography is not sexist and misogynistic if you use criteria for its evaluation that themselves are sexist and misogynistic: your inability to see what’s on full display betrays your inability to recognize the sexist and misogynistic societal structure you’re embedded in.

I recently saw Hani Hape, a German artist, exchange the women in Newton’s photographs with men. While the resulting images subvert some of the core message of Newton’s work, the underlying and possibly more noxious mechanism remains mostly untouched: the naked display of power and domination.

Furthermore, you do not get a female gaze if in a male-gaze setting you swap out women for men (whether in front of or behind a camera). To invert the male gaze you first have to invert the basic rules according to which it operates. And those rules rely on power and domination.

Having written all this, I am not even sure any longer that the sexism and misogyny in Helmut Newton’s work is its worst aspect. As bad as these are, they are merely parts of a much larger problem. Newton depicts a world that has no mercy, no kindness, no love, no feeling, a world that deems a lot of people as weak or not worthy, a world that excludes a lot of people based on their sexual orientation, their gender, their body type or shape, the colour of their skin… It’s a world that — and this might not surprise you — I reject.

Is that world something that should be uncritically celebrated with and in a museum in a very prominent location in the German capital? I don’t think so. In light of how political the issue ultimately is — at the time of this writing, the German government is working on a new law dealing with registering or changing gender identification, which, of course, is hotly contested — smart programming around Newton’s photography would appear of the order.

Apart from removing all of the photographer’s personal items on display, which frankly make for a partly weird, partly creepy, and partly embarrassing experience for all those who don’t buy into the personality cult, Newton’s pictures should be set against photographs by other artists that show expressions of the body, of sexuality, and of people being with each other in ways that are absent from (and thus negated by) the fashion photographer’s work. Then, you would be in business: You would allow people to see for themselves — and to come to their own conclusions (whatever those conclusions might be).

Ever since Marcel Duchamp presented a urinal as a piece of art in 1917, the question what art is has become meaningless. If a urinal can be art, anything can be art, including (obviously) photography. The discussions around whether photography is art are interesting not because they tell us something about the medium. Instead, they speak of what the people involved in such discussions consider art.

Unfortunately, photographers have been pretty bad at playing the game. Instead of happily embracing their medium and its many possibilities, more often than not they instead accepted other artists’ criteria for what their photographs had to look like for them to be considered as art. This gave us abominations such as Pictorialism, a form of visual shlock that because of its sheer triteness is almost interesting. Almost.

We might as well ask the following instead. What exactly can photography do that other art forms can’t (or what they might be bad at or at an advantage at)? After all, we celebrate painting for what it can do, we celebrate sculpture for what it can do — why don’t we do the same with photography?

Well, you might note, what about the people that I so callously refer to as the Neoliberal Realists (Andreas Gursky et al.)? Montaging photographs from constituent parts and then presenting them as if they were paintings — even as I happily accept these photographs as photographs, I don’t think borrowing so many techniques from other art forms is necessarily an expression of confidence in one’s own medium.

What I’m after here is something altogether more simple, something that is so obvious that I don’t think many people realize what a radical gesture is associated with it. It seems to me that if photography brings anything to art, it’s the ability to employ repetition to great effect. In fact, if used well, the end result of repetition can result in one of art’s most important themes, the sublime. I call this the repetitive sublime, the effect of which is achieved through sheer repetition and variation.

“Badacsony,” Wikipedia tells me, “is the name of a region on the north shore of Lake Balaton in western Hungary, a mountain top and a town in that region.” It’s also the name of a book by Ábel Szalontai.

The Wikipedia page comes with a photograph that shows an expanse of water — the lake, with a prominent mountain that features an oddly flat top behind it. There appear to be buildings near the mountain. On Google Maps, there is a settlement on the other side of the lake (Fonyód) that’s closest to the mountain. I check a number of random places using the “Street View” option and find the mountain across the lake in the background of the pictures.

If you grew up by the sea (as I have), you know of its magic. The sea is always the same — a field of water; and yet it is always different. There is something about larger bodies of water than enhances the senses and that even if you’re not a photographer makes you notice everything, especially the quality of light.

Faced with a vast body of water — an ocean — you’re likely to experience the sublime in its most well-known incarnation, especially if there is a storm brewing on the horizon. There is something incredibly vulgar about how uncaring the water is for your own concerns (or safety).

In Badacsony, you encounter the very same view towards that flat-topped mountain many times. There is the same stretch of the Lake. Each view is exactly the same, and each view is completely different as the time of day and weather change. I’m imagining that this might be the view from some building, and I’m imagining being the person whose view I am presented with.

It is their combination that creates its effect, reminding me of the fact that like every other human being I am merely a temporary visitor on this planet. Each moment that passes brings me closer to my own demise. Each moment that I spend on, for example, pressing down combinations of letters on my keyboard amounts to time deducted from an unknowable total.

This is the repetitive sublime that photography can deliver: through sheer repetition, by presenting the same picture in any number of variations, photography can make us face the insignificance of our existence.

I wrote earlier that other forms of art are unable to do it. That’s not fully correct. A completely different medium, music, can achieve the same effect. I’m thinking of, for example, France, a three-person band (you might be able to guess where they’re from) whose performances are a single drone. As the drums and bass lay down the rhythm, an amplified hurdy-gurdy produces an initially bewildering and ultimately mesmerizing sound that doesn’t appear to end. You can only understand it if you experience it in its entirety — this 71 minute track is the best I have found so far.

Of course, France‘s music is not the same as what photography does with its repetitive sublime. Listening to France will put you into a meditative trance in which the minutest variations in the sounds take on vast importance and in which a single medieval instrument somehow transforms into an occasionally terrifying orchestra. This will make you forget about time and have you face your innermost fears.

Given the fact that as viewers, we control the speed with which we’re looking at the pictures, photography does not throw you into a cauldron that is being stirred by outside forces. Instead, it layers picture upon picture upon picture, to achieve a similar effect: while as a viewer you’re the one who is doing the stirring, you will still have to face the fact that for this world of mountains and seas and plains and all of their creatures you are nothing. What you encounter in front of you is infinitely more complex than anything you’d ever be able to understand.

Why would you look at this, though? Or why would you listen to 71 minutes of France? There’s a simple answer: doing so is awe inducing in the most basic sense.

As for the book, I could have done without the selected parts of Laura Iancu’s poem alongside the pictures. But the words are easy to ignore when looking (you can later read the full poem in the back).

Recommended.

Badacsony; photographs by Ábel Szalontai; essays by Krisztina Somogyi, J.A. Tillmann, Laura Iancu; 182 pages; Self-published; 2023

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“Most people are nothing,” Fran Lebowitz told Helen Molesworth in a short clip on Instagram that I came across today, “by which I mean they’re of no consequence to anyone but themselves.” If you wanted to, you could see these words as the impetus behind making art: to create something that is of consequence to other people, even if you might not know who these people will be or, for that matter, whether there actually will be such people.

But the above also is the viewpoint of those who can have such conversations in a million-dollar art space or those, like me, who have some sort of relationship with them, however imagined and/or tenuous and certainly inconsequential it might be.

There is another viewpoint, expressed by Remco Campert in the foreword of Céline van Balen, a book that accompanied a large exhibition of the photographer’s work in 2002. “We go unnoticed,” he wrote, “because that is better for everyone. We are of no further use. The rest of the world has pushed us aside, untouchable. By not seeing us, they mean to deny us. But we live on.” (You can read the full text on the publisher’s website.)

Campert wrote these words about the people in Van Balen’s portraits. Just a little bit later, the photographer would join them. “She retired from photography in 2004,” Kees Keijer wrote in an article published on 28 July this year, “after finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the pressures of producing, exhibiting and performing. Her mind was ill-tempered with the success and the vague promises and high expectations that accompanied it. She struggled with a drug addiction that slowly crumbled her social life.”

(Please note that wherever the text is in English but a link goes to a Dutch language text I’m relying on machine translation. I corrected minor translation errors where needed.)

“Céline van Balen died of cancer on April 1,” we also learn, “and was cremated on April 8 at De Nieuwe Ooster. The fact that the news has only now become known is indicative of the way in which Van Balen had turned her back on the art world.”

“The city asks nothing of us,” Campert wrote, “the city is indifferent. The city is our best enemy.”

The art world asks nothing of us. The art world is indifferent. The art world is our best enemy.

If you have ever seen the photographs made by Van Balen, you will probably find it hard to believe that they’re not more well known outside of the Netherlands. Then again, if you know anything about the art world that the photographer decided to leave, you will not find it hard to understand why that is not the case.

After I heard of her death, I did a quick Google search and found an assortment of links to auction houses — money is still being made with her work, money she would never see because of the way the art world operates. There was one link that shows one of Van Balen’s iconic photographs with a short, yet insightful text about the work. If there are others, I didn’t see them.

Most people are nothing, we might add to Lebowitz’s words, not because they create “no consequences to anyone but themselves”. It’s because it takes two for those consequences to arise, in particular the people who decide to pay attention.

This is not merely an art-world problem (even though in an obvious sense, it is very pronounced there). Collectively, we have decided to treat large numbers of people as nothings, whether they’re not well-off people or migrants or refugees or chronically sick people… The list goes on and on.

As Van Balen demonstrated, it doesn’t take much to break that mechanism. In her photographs, she consistently placed people in front of her camera that art-world denizens would probably view as nothings.

How the art world is incapable of seeing its own massive contradiction — being an insular society of mostly wealthy people that betray a shocking disregard for those less fortunate, while ogling photographs of the very people considered as nothings — escapes me.

The art world loves nothing more than looking at photographs of underprivileged people, ideally male drifters with long beards or middle-aged women whose faces document the many hardships they have already gone through. Scores of photographers have built their careers on this. It’s not even that poverty is picturesque. It’s simply that poverty creates the preconditions for good pictures for them.

But less fortunate circumstances can also produce photographs that ennoble — rather than expose. Céline van Balen is filled with such photographs. I suspect that even the fans of Richard Avedon’s poverty porn from the American West might admire Van Balen’s tender portraits.

In the end, the reason why these photographs are different than Avedon’s mighty simply be because Van Balen cared for the people in front of her camera — and Avedon did not. We can’t know that for a fact; but we can see it in the pictures. “When you’re taking photos,” Kazuo Kitai recalled advice he received from Ihei Kimura, “put yourself in the position of the weakest.” Van Balen would’ve understood. Avedon? Not so much.

What the exact reasons might have been for Van Balen’s retirement from photography (if we want to call it that) I have no way of knowing. I’m thinking, and this is just a wild guess, that the photographer also saw through the way photographs — and by extension those in them — were and are treated and considered in the world of art. I’d like to think that she was going to have none of that.

What’s left is the book, and there are photographs in some collections. Part of the photographer’s archive has gone to the Nederlands Fotomuseum in Rotterdam, where it will be in very good hands.

“The work goes on,” Ted Kennedy ended a speech from a completely context (but I might as well use his words here), “the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die” — the dream that we’ll stop thinking of people as nothings. Whether or not the art world will come along, though… Let’s not get our hopes up on that.

RIP Céline van Balen

“My older brother’s name was Kazumichi (一道),” Daidō Moriyama wrote in April 1982 in an essay published in Asahi Camera. “He left this world when he was only one year old. Obviously, I have no memories of him. We were twins. If we consider my brother a copy of the Moriyama family, then I am a copy of a copy. The ideogram for his name “一” (kazu, “one”) was superimposed with the ideogram for “person” (人) to form my name (大道), and I ended up surviving.” Originally, 大道 was read as Hiromichi, but the photographer later changed it to Daidō, the now well known name (Japanese ideograms can be typically read in more than one way).

The quote sits at the very beginning of the first essay included in Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective, a catalogue that accompanies a retrospective organized by Thyago Nogueira in São Paulo, a city that itself has a very large Japanese community (at the time of this writing, the exhibition is now on view at C/O Berlin). As Nogueira makes clear in his own long and well researched essay, 1982 was a pivotal year for Moriyama. Ten years earlier, he had published 写真よさようなら or Bye Bye Photography as it became known in the West.

With that book the artist had reached the logical end point of a development that included membership in the fabled collective Provoke. Bye Bye Photography destroyed the conventions of photography and set a counterpoint to what photographs were supposed to look like — according to the generation of photographers that came right before Moriyama. Where do you go, though, when you’ve done that? The book triggered a huge artistic and personal crisis for Moriyama. It would take him a decade to get out of it.

In part, dealing with his own biography in a photographic fashion provided a way out for the artist. Because of the father’s job, the family had moved countless times. Moriyama went to visit the many locations. At the same time, he drastically scaled down the many experimentations that had been prominent up until Bye Bye Photography. From now on, he would focus mainly on what he is widely known for, a form of street photography presented in his signature high-contrast black and white.

Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective makes it very clear that the artist was considerably more complex in his early incarnation than in the one he is now widely known for. Surrounded by and friends with avant-garde artists such as Tadanori Yokoo, Moriyama had explored a large number of ideas, many of which were inspired by Western (mostly American) artists, among them William Klein and Andy Warhol. At the same time, being embedded in the Japanese avant-garde art scene meant exposure to some of its outputs, such as in theater.

And there was the connection to the previous generation (generation here in an artistic sense); both Shōmei Tōmatsu and Eikoh Hosoe were important influences. Moriyama worked with Hosoe when Hosoe was producing his elaborately staged photographs of Yukio Mishima, work that became known as Ordeal by Roses.

As was the case for many photographers at the time, Moriyama worked on a large number of magazine assignments. These provided him with the opportunity to pursue artistic ideas with an almost immediate outlet — magazine spreads — available. In 1967, Tōmatsu assembled a number of previously unconnected magazine work into his book Nippon. The following year, Moriyama did the same to produce his very first book, Japan — A Photo Theater.

Moriyama’s book is generally not seen as a portrait of the country so much as an investigation of photography. I think that’s too simplistic a read. If you ignore the photography aspect, Japan — A Photo Theater lays open the many conflicts over what the country might be or what it might mean to be Japanese. It’s brilliant work, in part because of the fact that the different photographic approaches drive home the point in a visual fashion.

I am very familiar with Japan — A Photo Theater. I own copies of the 1995 and 2011 re-releases, both of which differ in form and printing from the original. In an interview published in Japanese Photobooks of the 1960s and ’70s, Moriyama made it clear that he was interested in what photographs might look like when printed in different ways. “When I first started taking photographs,” he said, “I felt strongly that my photographs come into being via rotary press [like those high-speed printing machines used for printing newspapers]. It is for that reason that I dislike having an exhibition that is made up of photographic prints. […] An actual photographic print creates one type of world that is totally different from the world that comes about from printed matter.”

In a physical sense, this type of thinking extends the idea of the copy of the copy that he spoke of in 1982. A photograph is a copy of the world. Copies of the world are thus out in the world; they have become part of it. As the copy of a copy of the Moriyama family that he said he was, inspired by Warhol he photographed magazines or posters to create his own copies.

Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective is filled with lavish reproductions of the artist’s most famous work. Having encountered many of the photographs in the context of his books before, seeing them in isolated fashion in the catalogue was an interesting experience for me. I suspect that the hefty black-and-white printing in the catalogue is what many of his admirers would expect to see. For sure, it works very well, making for a visceral experience.

That said, I wouldn’t necessarily want to say that I prefer it over, say, the manga-style printing used in the Kodansha versions of Moriyama’s famous books. If there’s something Moriyama has attempted to teach us, it’s that not all copies have to look exactly alike for them to be interesting. It’s the spirit of the work that matters.

A crucial aspect of the catalogue is provided by a visual index of Moriyama’s magazine work. With Thyago Nogueira’s essay providing the context and background, this index adds an invaluable element to the book. It helps understanding an artist that is (or at least was) considerably more complex than the street photographer he now is. Masako Toda’s essay sheds further light on the photographer.

Those who are interested in a lot more details about Moriyama’s very early, most fruitful period, might want to seek out Philip Charrier’s masterly The Making of a Hunter: Moriyama Daidō 1966–1972. Unfortunately, much like his long essay on Fukase (that explodes many of photoland’s beloved myths about that photographer), it’s hidden behind an academic paywall. It’s Charrier’s essay that had me first look deeper into Moriyama.

In some ways, Moriyama might be compared to the German band Kraftwerk. In a few short years, Kraftwerk produced some of the most important and influential electronic pop music, only to then get completely derailed by digital technology making its entrance. After years of silence, Kraftwerk basically became their own cover band, producing ever more overproduced spectacles of the same songs whose charm previously had been the fact that they didn’t need any spectacle.

If you’re only familiar with the work Daidō Moriyama has done since 1982, you probably have no idea of the richness and breadth of his earlier photography, vast parts of which emerged from a dialogue with a number of incredibly gifted other artists. Japan — A Photo Theater is as incredible as Bye Bye Photography, even though they’re very different books. The later work pales in comparison to the earlier one, a fact that becomes very clear in Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective. The later work is repetitive, re-producing its own themes and thus turning them into clichés. Daidō Moriyama has become his own cover band, a copy of his own copy.

I’m convinced that Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective is an absolutely essential book, regardless of whether you’re interested in this artist or not. If you’re not, after having looked at it you probably will be interested. At the very least, you will have acquired a vastly expanded appreciation of Moriyama and especially the context of the Japanese photography scene in the 1960s. If you’re already a fan, it’s likely that you will have your thinking around the artist expanded.

Highly recommended.

Daido Moriyama: A Retrospective; ed. Thyago Nogueira; texts by Daidō Moriyama, Thyago Nogueira, Yuri Mitsuda, Masako Toda, Masashi Kohara, Yutaka Kambayashi, Satoshi Machiguchi, Kazuya Kimura; 288 pages; Prestel; 2023

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The Problem with Helmut Newton

Ábel Szalontai’s Repetitive Sublime

Céline van Balen 1965-2023

Kazumichi, Hiromichi: Daidō